Page 15 of The Ragpicker King
“Prosper Beck,” Aden says. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
Beck makes a small sound of annoyance. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I heard you had left Castellane.”
“I see.” Beck leans his folded arms on the back of the second chair. “Rumors of my departure have been greatly exaggerated.”
“Have they? You’ve been absent from your normal headquarters, and your usual operatives—Bron, Kaspar, Jerrod Belmerci—all seem to be employed elsewhere now.”
Beck shrugs. “They’ll return when summoned. They all knew my leave of absence wasn’t permanent.”
It is clear more information is not forthcoming. “In that case, you’ll be glad to know I’ve held on to your goods for you. Thirty-six crossbows, hidden under an order of teakwood for House Raspail.” He lifts the bottle. “Shall we drink to a deal concluded?”
The corner of Beck’s mouth quirks up. “Alas, I cannot remain long. Duty calls.”
Aden shrugs and takes a swig from the wine bottle. He makes a face. Bitter. “Very well. But there’s something you should know.”
Beck has begun to turn away but stops and swings around to look keenly at Aden. “What is that?”
It is nice to hear Castellani again, Aden thinks. The language of his birth. Sometimes he goes months now without hearing it. “I know,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “that you have much invested in the fortunes of Castellane. I thought it might interest you to know that in the time we’ve been docked here, my men and I have seen foreign soldiers coming in and out of the caves. Now, pirates I’d expect—all manner of ruffians really—but not soldiers.” He takes another swig of the wine. “I thought you ought to know.”
Beck’s light eyes narrow. “Foreign soldiers? Not Castellani?”
“No. Malgasi would be my guess.”
A look of surprise passes across Beck’s normally impassive face. “Soldiers of Malgasi. You’re sure?”
“No, I’m not sure. But that’s who I think they are.”
“Interesting. Very interesting,” Beck murmurs in a voice so low, Aden guesses he isn’t meant to hear the words. “But—enough about that. I’ll be sending my men to collect the goods from you later tonight. If I might inquire, how long do you plan to remain in Castellane? Or is your business here concluded?”
Aden smiles down into his wine bottle. “It’s not concluded. No, I may be here some while.”
For the first time, Beck grins. “I don’t suppose your desire to remain has anything to do with a certain Princess from Kutani, does it?”
Aden knows better than to show when he is caught off guard.He busies himself in studying the label on the wine bottle, though he could not have said what information it held. After a moment, he says lazily, “I’m here on my own business. Nothing to trouble you.”
“Hm.” Without another word, Beck turns and walks away along the narrow dock. Aden mutters and reaches for the wine bottle, only to sit back when Beck whirls around to look at him again. “Artal Gremont.” The cave walls amplify Beck’s words, making them resound as if they stand inside a temple. “You brought him to Castellane. On your ship.”
Aden groans silently. “For better or worse, yes. He slithered off into the city the moment we arrived here.”
“And what did you think of him?”
Beck’s tone is studiedly neutral. Aden hesitates only a moment before he says coldly, “I took Gremont on board because he was willing to pay handsomely for a passage to Castellane. And I regretted it immediately. The man is a pig with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. In fact, he gives pigs a bad name. If you were thinking of doing business with him, I’d advise against it.” He taps his fingers against the side of his chair, remembering the stowaway on board theBlack Rose,what Gremont had done to her. How—if Laurent had not arrived in time—Gremont might even have killed her. “He likes to hurt people. People weaker than him. He’s... not a careful man.”
Beck stands still for a long moment, haloed in the light from the Sunderglass above. “Thank you,” Beck says eventually, with a nod. “For the advice.”
Aden sits lost in thought as Beck strides toward the nearby boat and clambers in. He can hear the sound of low voices in conference, muffled by the lap of water. He raises the bottle again and takes a second swig of the liquid. It is still bitter.
CHAPTER THREE
As Second Watch began and the lamps in the Kathot were doused for the night, Lin left her house and struck out across the Sault for the House of Women.
She found Chana Dorin waiting for her in the kitchen with a mug ofkarak.Chana had been rubbing balm into her hands, arthritis having swelled her finger joints until they looked like knots in wood. She had already heard that the Maharam had asked to see Lin that afternoon, and she demanded a full accounting of events.
“That old fool,” she snorted, once Lin had recounted the conversation in the garden. “Did hereallytell you to have patience with those unready for the Shekinah? As if I haven’t spent the past three months telling you to have patience withhim.”
Lin smiled a little. It was true. The Maharam might be the most powerful man in the Sault, but Chana clearly felt that, in the wake of Lin’s announcement, he was behaving like a petulant child.
